Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street
A gentle Irishman, mighty odd;
He'd a beautiful brogue so rich and sweet
And to rise in the world he carried a hod.
Now, Tim had a bit of the tipplin' way
With a love for the liquor poor Tim was born
And to help him on with his work each day
He'd a "drop of the Craythur every morn.
Whack fol the dah O, dance to your partner
Welt the floor, your trotters shake;
Wasn't it the truth I told you
Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake!
One mornin' Tim was rather full
His head felt heavy which made him shake;
He fell from the ladder and broke his skull
And they carried him home his corpse to wake.
They rolled him up in a nice clean sheet
And laid him out upon the bed,
A gallon of whiskey at his feet
And a barrel of porter at his head.
His friends assembled at the wake
And Mrs. Finnegan called for lunch,
First she brought in tay and a cake
Then pipes, tobacca' and whiskey punch.
Biddy O'Brien began to cry
"Such a nice clean corpse, did you ever see?
"O Tim, mavourneen, why did you die?"
"Arragh, hold your gob" cried Paddy McGee!
Then Maggie O'Connor took up the job
"O Biddy," says she, "You're wrong, I'm sure"
Biddy she gave her a belt in the gob
And left her sprawlin' on the floor.
And then the war did soon engage
'Twas woman to woman and man to man,
Shillelagh law was all the rage
And a row and a ruction soon began.
Then Mickey Maloney ducked his head
When a noggin of whiskey flew at him,
It missed, and falling on the bed
The liquor scattered over Tim!
Tim revives! See how he rises!
Tim he rises from the dead,
Says, "Whirl your whiskey around like blazes"
"Thanum an Dhul, do you thunk I'm dead?"